Dawn of the Meta: Abnutzungskrieg
by Emper0rH0rde
Summary: KOTOR 2 DSM Exile. Through a series of flashbacks, Elazio Darianella reflects on his difficult experiences following the war, and contemplates - and questions - the morality of the Jedi Ways.
1. Chapter 1

_"We walk through the ages  
__The world on our shoulders  
__The burden we carry  
__To the dark end of our days  
__A thousand eyes watching  
__every step we are taking  
__waiting to see us  
__struggle and fall."_

"How long has it been? Since you left?"

"Thirteen years. I was only nineteen when I answered the call to courage."

"I thought you were exiled."

"I was. But that wasn't until I returned from the war, which lasted three long, bloodstained years. You see, the time when I went to war was the exact moment when I left the Jedi; some part of me knew I wouldn't be coming back. By the time the war ended, I was practically deaf to the Force."

"Deaf to the Force? What happened?"

"Do you know of Malachor 5 and what transpired there?"

"That was the planet where the Republic made its final stand. I heard it was a massacre. One of the most devastating battles in galactic history."

"You heard correctly. Out of the thousands of ships that came, only a small handful of them were barely functional enough to limp away, never to fly again. There were only enough survivors to fill a stadium, and over half of them eventually died as well."

"That is horrible, but it doesn't explain how you nearly lost your connection to the Force."

"The Force is in all of us, Chronicler. Some may not be sensitive it, nevertheless it is there, often remaining dormant for a lifetime. But that is beside the point. There were close to four million people in the Battle of Malachor, about ninety percent of whom died simultaneously. Now, let's pretend that ten thousand people die in a raid bombing. That alone would cause a figurative cry of pain in the Force, because when someone dies, the Force that dwells within them usually dies as well."

"I am beginning to see where you're going with this."

"Approximately three million people died - in the same _instant_ - during the destruction of Malachor 5. Can you even begin to imagine the repercussions of a massacre of that scale?"

"No. I cannot."

"Exactly."

"And it was that slaughter that ultimately cut you off from the Force?"

"To those who are Force-sensitive, the Force is like music. It is a constant melody too sweet to describe, swirling around you, guiding you along your path, like a river carries a raft. As long as the song of the Force echoes through your mind, there is no chaos, only serenity. You're at peace. But for nearly ten years, the only thing I heard was the death scream of thousands upon thousands of mortal souls crying out in agony. For almost a decade, I was completely alone."

"How did you go on?"

"If I were still a Jedi, I wouldn't have. Anger is strictly forbidden to Jedi, and it was my anger which was the very thing that gave me the strength to survive. With anger comes determination. With determination comes resolve. With resolve comes strength. And through strength, anything is possible."

"Is that your code?"

"It might become one, some time. Anyway, my anger was what saved me, Chronicler. It's the only reason I'm still alive after Malachor."

"I also heard you were the sole Jedi survivor of that battle. Surely some part of you must have died with your colleagues, after having known them for so long."

"I won't lie to you, Chronicler. I walked away from that battle permanently scarred. Permanently. The accumulative death during the war reached a culmination at Malachor, and caused a wound in the Force, which affected me as well. Subsequently the Force within me became a storm of throbbing pain, and accompanied with the screams of the dead and dying, caused me mental and physical torment for many long years. Only now am I beginning to heal."

"But you will never truly recover."

"Time will tell. It is possible that I may never again hear the Force as clearly as I once could. I trained myself to hear past the screams, to reach through the scorching flames of my suffering and feel the Light. That notwithstanding, I couldn't shut out the screams, no matter what I did. Even as my powers redeveloped, the sounds of a planet dying a violent death in mere minutes rang in my ears, and to this day it still does. It's my curse. One that I've learned to live with, because my only other choice was to give up and die."

"You sacrificed nearly everything to stop the Mandalorians, including that which you held dear. Such heroism can only be admired. What I would like to know is how the Jedi could find it in themselves to cast out someone who had given up so _much_ for the greater good?"

"Because they didn't believe in what I was doing. Let me tell you that heroism is all too often a thankless task. Countless acts of valor, selflessness, and self-sacrifice all too often disappear as quickly as they appear simply because no one remembers them. Or because no one wanted to acknowledge it. Or, in thise case, because the hero was punished for his actions to defend the defenseless. Chastised for intervening when the powers that be could not, or would not carry out their sworn duty. When the hero becomes the villain because he did what he knew was right, it brings about a question that we all ask ourselves. A question to which very few find the answer."

"What question is that?"

"The question is: why? The answer is never the same, and it is always elusive. It always hangs just beyond our reach, like a fruit on the highest branch; we try as hard as we can, but despite our efforts we just can't quite reach it. In the end, however, even if we don't find the answer, it doesn't really matter why no good deed goes unpunished."

"Because those who have the ability to act, have the responsibility to act, and that which is right and just must be done, no matter how daunting or horrific."

"Exactly. And believe me when I tell you that war is truly horrific."

"I believe you more than anything. War is a nightmare for which there can be no preparation."

"Nothing in my life could ever have prepared me for the horrors that the Mandalorians unleashed upon this unsuspecting galaxy. The pleasure I saw in their eyes as they forced men to watch while their families were ravaged and eviscerated right in front of them was the single most terrifying thing I have ever seen in my entire life. It scared me to the depths of my soul to think that anyone, even the Mandalorians, could take such perverse pleasure from such grievous atrocities. And it was that inhumanity which is the reason why I do not regret what happened at Malachor 5. Yes, that was a horrible and terrible thing, I've had no illusions about it. But it had to be done. Heavy sacrifices had to be made. We had to win the war, or we would _all_ be dead, because the Mandalorians would not have stopped at uprooting the Republic. They would have continued their blood-stained campaign of terror until every last man, woman, and child lay dead at their feet. They say they fight for honor. Maybe that's true for some. But not these. Some terrorists kill people in the name of their false god. Some terrorists kill for political reasons. The Mandalorians, however, butchered helpless people, burned entire worlds, because they liked it. It wasn't for any particular reason, just for their own sick, depraved pleasure. They claim to be warriors who wanted to face the full strength of the Republic in battle. I know they are nothing more than sadistic, genocidal cowards who wanted a war for the mere sake of having a war to fight."

"And such an enemy must be stopped at any cost."

"Precisely, Chronicler. Now Malachor 5 may have been a heavy cost at the time. In retrospect, however, it was a small price to pay in comparison to the devastation the Mandalorians would have wrought had they not been stopped. That was our last resort. Our last option. For months I racked my brain, desperately trying to think of a different way to end the war. The last thing I wanted to do in order to stop the enemy was to destroy another world. The last thing I wanted to do was to become, in any way, like the Mandalorians. In the end, I came to see that, like the war, the ruin of Malachor 5 was as inevitable as the war itself. We were left with no choice but to destroy one last world in a last ditch effort to hopefully save what was left of a dying Republic. If the Mandalorians had not taken the bait, I would not be here talking to you. If we had failed at Malachor 5, this galaxy would lie dead, rotting in complete and utter ruin, only to be rebuilt in the Mandalorians' savage, violent, war-loving ideal."

"But has it been saved? Will we ever see true peace again?"

"Maybe we will prevail and move on. Perhaps we won't. Maybe someday, the Republic will crawl into a proverbial gutter and just let itself die. No one can know, because the future remains unwritten."

"I cannot help but wonder how anything could go back to the way it was after so many terrible things, so many _nightmares_. I look around myself, staring this wounded galaxy wondering, how can civilization go on?"

"Peace is a fragile thing, Chronicler, and the war shattered it."

"It's been ten years since the death of Malachor 5. Was that the right thing to do?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe the wound in the Force will heal?"

"Time will tell, my friend. Time will tell."

* * *

_The quotation at the beginning is taken from the Arch Enemy song 'Carry the Cross.' In case you were wondering, I don't own it, and this is strictly non-profit blah blah._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's warning:** _This chapter contains a scene of extreme violence some may find disturbing. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!_

* * *

"_I brought you fires  
__that you put out  
__I brought you fires  
__for I cannot be without  
__I came with sadness  
__but this my shattered heart can't bear."_

During the war, he was known as General Elazio Darianella of the 801st infantry legion, an excellent leader and motivational speaker who was more than capable of commanding, and winning the respect of his soldiers. He was not the tallest person ever seen, but he was a highly charismatic individual nonetheless. An exotically handsome young man, with deep brown eyes set in a dark, slender face, and a raven black mane that fell in lovely waves to just below his chin.

Among his troops, he was a hero. He had saved too many people to not have earned that esteem.

Now he stood before the Jedi Council, entirely without rue, about to become a villain in their eyes, for the same actions that had made him a champion.

"Do you know why you have been summoned here, Elazio?" Master Vrook asked sternly, his entire demeanor gruff and reproachful, like he always was. He sat in one of many bowl-shaped chairs which were arranged in a circle which outlined the Council Chambers, a large round room at the top of one of the spires of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. With him were Master Zez Kae-Ell, Master Atris, Master Kavar, and Master Vash. Sorrow and regret lingered in the eyes of Kae-Ell, and especially Kavar, hovering about him like a dark, low-hanging cloud. Why did it have to come to this? Why couldn't Revan, Malak, and Elazio have simply listened to the Council and been more cautious? Didn't they realize they were only making things worse, for themselves and everyone around them?

Like Vrook, Vash had a reproving air about her, and although she was not grouchy, she agreed that Elazio deserved to be punished. Atris merely sat in her seat, fuming silently, and stared balefully at the accused with unchecked hatred.

A stab of pain nagged Elazio's heart as he regarded Atris. Once, she had been kind, sweet, loving, and gentle, like a surrogate mother to him, and especially to the younglings. Her warm, caring nature had matched her ethereal beauty then. It didn't now. Elazio's heartstrings nearly came undone, because Atris still looked as lovely as she had eight years ago before the war had even started. Her silken snow-white hair was still bound tightly atop her exquisitely sculpted head, her silver eyes shone like the moon on the ocean. Her slender figure remained wrapped in the snowy robes of a Jedi Historian, and the grace and poise with which she carried herself were so fluid and effortless, it couldn't really be taught, only admired. The only thing that set off the pure whiteness of Atris' angelic countenance were her lips, the color of which Elazio had compared to the Naboo ruby, said to be the most exquisite shade of red ever seen. But now, the only thing of which they reminded Elazio was the color of blood. Spilt blood. Atris was no longer beautiful to him, because she never smiled any more; her past motherly self was gone, replaced by bitterness, seething malice, and above all, hatred. Elazio remembered the look of joy on Atris' face, the light in her eyes as she taught roomfuls of younglings about the history of the Jedi Order. She had always loved children, and the delight on her face, and in her voice was something that couldn't really be described. Nowadays, Atris spent her in the Archives poring over what everyone concluded to be ancient Galactic history (although no one knew for certain, because no one, not even other Masters, dared disturb her), rarely seeing anyone, and never teaching the younglings anymore. It was as if she were dead. Elazio wanted to cry. But now was not the time or place for that; he would save it for later. There would be time for him to mourn, later.

"It doesn't matter why I've been summoned," Elazio answered calmly, "I am here because I _chose_ to come. If I'd chosen not to, I wouldn't be here, regardless of whether you summoned me or not. I am here of my own free will, and that's all that matters."

"As you chose to follow Revan to war," said Master Kae-Ell, "you come full circle back to the Jedi, where you will answer for your crimes against the Order."

"Is Revan your master now?" Atris asked, her voice smouldering with accusation. "Have you truly fallen that far?"

"If I were what you believe me to be, I would not hesitate to kill you where you sit, Master Atris," Elazio calmly replied, having little difficulty keeping his voice even. He was not angry yet. "I am my _own_ Master, my own Apprentice. Every decision I make is my own. Therefore, I never followed Revan to war; I merely made the same decision that he made, which was to bring the fight back to the Mandalorians in the hope of saving innocent lives."

"And in doing so, you gave to them _exactly_ what they wanted," snarled Vrook, "a war. We grow tired of your excuses, young one."

Elazio felt his anger boiling over as his eyes met Vrook's, and he resisted the consuming urge to hurl the galling old grouch out the window and watch him fall. What an ignorant, overbearing, thick-headed idiot! He didn't seem physically capable of understanding.

"Would you be so cautious, Master Vrook, if it were _your_ homeworld burning? If it were _your_ family being _butchered_ right before your eyes?" Elazio shot back, still never raising his voice or spitting his words. As he grew angrier, his voice would sink lower and lower, until he spoke in a rumble. "Would you have just sat there, "evaluating" the threat while the world crumbled around you, and the people who looked to you for protection were cut down like animals? Is that what you would have done?"

The Masters immediately became indignant.

"Silence!" Atris hissed, as she rose to her feet in fury. Kavar, who sat next to her, calmly instructed her to remain seated. She grudgingly complied.

"You dare mock me?" The rage in Vrook's gruff voice was unrestrained. It had always amazed Elazio that people like Vrook, and now Atris, were on the Council – let alone, Masters – even though they often let their emotions and personal feelings go unchecked. Even more baffling was that the other Masters – namely Kavar, Kae-Ell, and Vash – who were in complete control of themselves, simply sat there and quietly tolerated their biased presence. It was as if the Jedi Code didn't apply to them merely because they were Masters who were on the Council.

The glower on Elazio's face betrayed his anger, but could never compare to the sheer vehemence that burned within him, threatening to explode to the surface and annihilate anything in its path. Elazio continued to fight his inner darkness, and quelled his anger. He kept it restrained even as the bonds wore desperately thin.

"Of _course_ I dare _mock_ you."

"Enough!" The authority in Kavar's voice was undeniable as his command rang out before Atris could leap for Elazio's throat. "We will return to the purpose of this meeting immediately," he turned to Atris, "before this turns violent." Atris, whose maleficent stare never left Elazio for a moment, sat stock still, with her jaw set and her fists clenched, seething in wrathful silence. Fire and red mist billowed and swirled behind her once-beautiful eyes.

"What _is_ the purpose, exactly?" Indeed, the only thing the Council had done was fling accusations at Elazio the moment he stepped through the door. If this gathering had a specific intent, it certainly wasn't apparent. "Why am I even here?"

"You are here because you disobeyed the Council's instructions," Vash spoke for the first time. "Because you defied us."

"Why, Elazio? Why did you defy us?" It was the stupidest question – indeed, the stupidest thing – Elazio had ever heard coming out of Kavar's mouth. Usually, the dark-blond-haired, blue-eyed Master was quite reasonable, for a Council member, that is. He always listened when someone had something to say, he never cut anyone off in midsentence, and he was always very polite and understanding. Whenever he said something that didn't make sense, he would always apologize and rephrase himself as best as he could. It was very out of character for him to ask such a moronic query.

Kavar was Elazio's last remaining friend on the Council, and now even he had turned against him. Of course, the Council believe the exact opposite to be true; for as far as they were concerned, Elazio, Revan, Malak, and all the Jedi who followed them to war had turned against the Order, instead of the other way around. What they didn't know – or refuse to acknowledge, for that matter – was that the rogue Jedi had gone to war without the approval of the Council _because_ the Masters had turned against _them_. It was so ridiculous, it was almost funny.

Elazio had gone to war in order to save as many people as he could. And the Council knew it. They were just too arrogant and self-righteous to admit that they were incapable of action. Because of that, the general public now held Jedi in low esteem, regarding them as cowardly pacifists who would flee a brawl in the street just to save their own hide. (Normally Elazio wouldn't have minded, but since most people thought he was still a Jedi, it annoyed him all the same) Yet still unwilling to admit to their mistakes, the Council blamed it all on Elazio, accusing him of ruining the Jedi's good name, and making them look bad. However, the fact remained that the Jedi _were_ "bad," but it was their own fault entirely.

"I defied you," Elazio began, "because you were incompetent."

By now, Atris was snarling through gritted teeth, her face distorted with wrath. Her hands balled into fists which seemed to clench harder by the second, and it wasn't difficult to tell that she was inches away from exploding.

"The Jedi are supposed to be guardians of the light, defenders of justice. It is our sworn duty to protect those who do not have the ability to defend themselves. The Mandalorians were sweeping freely across Republic space, unchecked, unchallenged, killing at will. And yet you refused to defend our people. The Republic turned to us for protection, and you abandoned them. You looked the other way, because that was easier than accepting the fact that open war was upon you whether you liked it or not. You refused to help because _you didn't know what to do_. You were unwilling to admit that you were not as all-knowing as you had led everyone to believe, so you made up pathetic justifications for your inability to act.

"That is why I defied you. I defied you because I had to. _Someone_ had to. The only thing I regret about it is that it didn't happen sooner. Like you, we waited until it was nearly too late."

"That is blasphemy!" Atris stormed. "You disobeyed us because you dreamt of being a hero. You sought adventure. You _couldn't wait_ to follow Revan to war!"

"THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I AM TRYING TO GET THROUGH TO YOU!" For the first time that day, Elazio shouted at the Council. His voice was thunderous, and reverberated off the glass walls of the Council chamber, causing Vash and Kae-Ell to cover their ears. But in the same instant, Elazio's demeanor calmed, and he continued in his low voice.

"We couldn't wait because we didn't have time. We had to act immediately or all would have been lost."

"Did you think rushing into battle would have done anything but bring more harm to the galaxy?" Vrook shot back. Elazio pointedly ignored him, not even giving him so much as a glance. Arguing with that grouchy Patriarch was a fruitless endeavor. It always had been, always would be. Trying to plant a fig tree in the middle of a crowded city street was a more productive use of one's time and energy. And patience, for that matter.

"Acting without thinking is not the Jedi way," Vash added, her tone reasonable, but her words, not. Revan and Malak had thought carefully about what they were doing when they joined the war, as had Elazio. "This rash march to war contradicts everything we stand for."

"I see, so we "stand" for sitting around on our fat asses doing nothing while worlds are ripped apart around us? We stand for abandoning our brothers and sisters when they need us most? If so, then congratulations, schuttas. Mission accomplished." _This is not a trial_, Elazio thought bitterly. _It's war. A war which neither side will really win._ "You can never fully understand why this had to be done, because you were safely here on Coruscant while the actual war happened elsewhere. I, on the other hand, was near the Outer Rim, taking the trials, when the attacks began."

"You made a reckless decision and the consequences of that are all around us," Vrook droned, in his monotonous, irritating 'Vrook' voice. "The Republic is teetering on the brink of ruin, the Jedi are practically extinct, and the Sith remain very much at large, putting the galaxy in even greater danger than before. All because of you, Darianella. And you're wrong about us. We understand perfectly."

For a while, Elazio stood silently, his gaze moving from Master to Master. He looked into each of their eyes, eyes that had not seen what he had seen, and probably never would, and decided that it was time to stop arguing. Annoying Elazio was all the Council had managed to accomplish by heaping blame on him. And all Elazio had managed to accomplish by having a comeback for everything the Council said was exactly nothing. Time to stop trying to reason, and time to start showing.

"No," he said, "you don't," and turned towards a holo-projector that sat in the middle of the round room. With deliberate movements, he drew a small object from the inside of his robes.

"What are you doing?" Kae-Ell asked.

"Helping you understand." An tear of angered frustration rolled down Elazio's cheek as he inserted the holo-chip into the machine. The projector whirred and chugged for a short while before playing the video capture.

The first few seconds of the holovid were dark and blurry, until finally it came into focus.

"What is this?" Vash demanded.

"You will see."

_A house stood in front of whoever was holding the holo-cam, it was nighttime. Someone whispered something sharply, and the vision bobbed up and down, nodded, almost as if it were an orbital implant recording everything this person saw. The camera turned around and glanced at a dozen or so Mandalorians in battle armor, all of whom were crouched low and moving slowly, like they were preparing for a sneak attack._

Before any of the Masters could make the connection, the "cameraman" let out a barbaric cry, which was taken up by his underlings as they charged. A few quick glances to either side revealed – to the horror of the Council – that they were attacking not only a house, but an entire village. An entire village full of innocent people – not only men, but women, children... _babies_ – helpless to defend themselves.

_The door was blasted down, and the murderers flooded in. Within seconds, confused and frightened screams rang out as the residents were beaten out of their slumber, torn from their beds and dragged into the family room._

_"Please don't hurt my family! I'll do anything! ANYTHING! DON'T HURT THEM, PLEASE!" a man's voice wailed._

_There were three small crying children, and two parents. The man and his wife were naked, probably as a result of their lovemaking earlier in the night. The plaintive wail of a tiny infant was cruelly silenced by a blaster shot._

_The woman screamed and struggled against her captor, but to no avail. The hands that bound her were simply too strong, and cut off the circulation in her arms as she tried desperately to break free. "NOOOOOOO! MY ANGEL! PLEASE, NOT MY ANGEL! MY PRECIOUS ANGEL!"_

_The Mandalorians laughed and gloated as she was beaten, shrieking and crying, to the floor. One of the tormentors got on top of her, groping her, violating her, viciously slapping her when she tried to resist._

_"Leave her alone, I beg you! Do whatever you want with me! Please let them go!"_

_The monster with the holo-cam grabbed the man by the hair and lifted him up off the floor, forcing him to look his tormentor in the eyes – and straight into the eyes of anyone watching the nightmarish holo._

_"I love it when they beg," the one with the holo-cam – the ringleader – jeered, and spat into the man's crying face. Then he delivered a sickening blow which broke the man's nose and tore a handful of hair from his head. The children continued to howl miserably as their father crumpled to the floor, clutching his bleeding scalp._

_"So, Sherruk, shall we ravage the man's family right before his eyes, or should we simply kill them all one by one, saving the father for last?" The voice came from behind the ringleader, and the camera turned to face another armor-clad brute. His armor was splattered with blood that was not his own, and in his hand he held – like a hunting trophy – the severed head of a small child, whose chubby face was frozen in a silent scream._

_The ringleader – Sherruk? – chuckled sadistically and glanced at the naked woman who was still being viciously ravished. Her screams were distressing, earsplitting. Traumatizing._

_"No, Jarak. After I have killed the children, we will take turns with the woman, and then kill her as well. Once the family is dead, we will cut off the man's thumbs, but keep him alive in case we ever need him for food. Bring me the smallest child."_

_Upon hearing this, the mother went wild, screeching and thrashing, fighting harder than ever. She rained blows on her tormentor's face, and pummeled his crotch with her knee. There were crunching, squishing sounds, which implied that the woman had broken several of the monster's teeth, and the combination of her blows and the sharp edges of the broken teeth were tearing up the inside of the Mandalorian's mouth._

_The beast holding the severed head of a baby stalked towards the three children, two of which were barely more than toddlers, roughly grabbed the smallest one by her blonde curls, and dragged the shrieking girl by the hair to the center of the room._

_By now, the mother had broken free of her captor's grip, and was tearing across the floor, screaming "no," screaming "please," screaming "not my babies," screaming until her throat went hoarse and each breath came with a spasm of agony._

Elazio studied the Council's faces as the terrible, tragic scene unfolded in front of them, a literal glimpse into the deepest, darkest corners of the mind. It was the very place from which the evil in all of us stems, the place from which the cancer that is the dark side of all souls spreads and infects everything it touches. The Masters were in shock.

Like he had been, they were caught off-guard, completely unprepared for the sheer horror that was terribly common during the Mandalorian War. Unbeknownst to them, however, this was only the tip of the iceberg; the Council were witnessing the annihilation of only one small household. This was NOTHING compared to the total destruction of a whole planet – and the Mandalorians had destroyed _dozens_ of worlds. This was merely a minuscule _speck_ of the nightmare that had lasted three long years and spanned across the galaxy.

_Strangely enough, Jarak was unprepared for the raw ferocity of the woman's attack, and was knocked to the floor as the mother rammed into him with the force of a rugbol defenseman, breaking his hold on the little girl. Screeching and babbling, the woman pummeled the Mandalorian's face like a rabid animal, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, and the grisly crunching sound of teeth breaking reverberated in the confines of the room. She landed dozens of blows in a matter of seconds, but by then, the momentarily stunned Mandalorians had recovered from their astonishment and descended upon her. They tore her, screaming and thrashing, off of Jarak who was now virtually unrecognizable. His face was mottled with dark bruises, streaked with bloody scratch marks from the woman's fingernails. His nose was demolished, and his right eye had been clawed out; it dangled uselessly on Jarak's battered face, the optic nerve still clinging feebly to it even as it threatened to fall off altogether. A steady stream of blood ran from the empty socket down the side of his rugged cheek, dribbled off his chin and spattered onto his armor. His mouth was also a bloody mess; nearly all of his front teeth were broken, and his lips had been torn to shreds. He had probably also suffered a certain degree of brain damage._

_It would take weeks, if not months, for him to recover from those wounds, and ironically, they had not been inflicted by another combatant. They were not the result of a battle with a brutish Wookiee warrior, or a Trandoshan elite wearing four-inch-thick battle armor. They were inflicted – within seconds – by a _naked_ Human woman, _half_ his size and strength, who was only trying to protect her young. No doubt, his pride would be as grievously injured as he was. If not more._

_"I think it's time for a change of plans," Sherruk chuckled as five of his largest cohorts wrestled the thrashing, biting, screeching woman to the floor and pinned her limbs down with their knees, using the full weight of their massive bodies. "We don't like rebels, now, do we?"_

_The Mandalorians jeered in agreement._

_"We all know what we do to rebels, don't we?"_

_Morbid anticipation saturated the barbarians' voices as they roared their approval._

_"We will start with the husband. And make sure the noble wife can see."_

_The man, who had been writhing in pain on the floor, clutching his face and lacerated scalp, was now being lifted off the floor by his legs, like an animal hanging in a slaughterhouse, only alive._

_"Papa! Papa!" the tiny blonde girl squealed, before she was kicked savagely in the face by a Mandalorian boot. The child half flew across the room, and slammed into the wall with a nauseating thud. She slid to the floor like a rag doll._

_The woman's voice was so hoarse now, she no longer sounded human. The sounds that ripped from her throat were akin to the primal, grating bellow of a maimed wampa creature, as her husband's stomach and throat were sliced open right in front of her._

It was the most disgusting, and horrifying thing the Masters had ever seen. A fresh wave of revulsion washed over them like a vile tide tainted with the filth of dead things. Rotting. Stinking. Maggot-infested. But as shocked as they were, ashen-faced and repulsed, the Masters could not tear their gaze from the gruesome spectacle of the innocent family being butchered like animals.

_The man's twitching corpse was held erect over the pinned woman, blood and entrails spilling out of the ugly gashes in the neck and abdomen, and splashing all over the woman's naked body, like an obscene shower._

Vash, sickened by the mercilessly awful images, and unable to contain herself any longer, vomited loudly and violently all over her robes, the fluids soaking through the soft fabric. Twice. Thrice. Her convulsive retches mingled freely with her sobs of distress.

Atris was also visibly, and mentally shaken by the shocking horror of the massacre. She practically cowered on her chair, her eyes wide, both hands covering her mouth, as she silently prayed for this nightmare to end.

_The carcass was discarded, unceremoniously hurled into the street like slop from a chamber pot. No sooner had the torn body landed, when two of Sherruk's underlings grabbed the tiny girl and ripped off her nightdress. Then they proceeded to savagely beat her, the force of their blows practically batting the girl back and forth between them like a rag doll. Within seconds, the child was as limp as a boned tach, but the Mandalorians continued to pummel her small, motionless body, savoring every second of brutality._

"Turn it off," Atris begged, tears in her eyes. "Please."

Elazio glanced at her, but said nothing, and made no move to end the Masters' torment just yet. They had to understand who the Mandalorians were, what they were capable of doing, and just how far they were willing to go to get what they wanted. Which, in this case, was a war. Making them view this holovid was the only way they could begin to grasp just how atrocious the Mandalorians could be.

_Sherruk shoved the torturers aside, grabbed the nonmoving child by the hair, and dragged her in front of the mother, who – along with her captors – was now covered in blood and gore. The small intestine was draped down the front of her slender body like a ghastly, slithery vine._

_Before the woman even had the chance to beg for her daughter's life, the child's throat was torn open by a serrated combat knife, and there was a practical explosion of blood. A new stream of crimson burst free from the grisly, jagged gash in the girl's small neck, splattering against anything within five feet of her, and drenched her mother in yet another layer of blood from yet another family member._

"TURN IT OFF!" Atris was screaming now, hot tears flowing down her face almost as freely as the blood in the holovid. Her face and neck were wet, and the bosom of her white robes was damp. "PLEASE TURN IT OFF! I BEG YOU, _PLEASE!_" The beseeching quality of Atris' sobbing voice broke Elazio's heart, and in that moment, the sorrow he carried for her came boiling to the surface, rubbing salt in one of his deepest wounds. This was the old Atris speaking now. The Atris who loved children. The Atris who smiled. The Atris who laughed the most enchanting, musical laugh Elazio had ever heard. The Atris whom he once loved, who had loved him like a mother would. Even as she was wrapped in her own abject hate, her love for children still lived, flickered like a candlelight in a subterranean cavern. Watching a child being brutalized and murdered in such a sick manner was more than she could ever bear.

Without a word, Elazio stopped the holovid, just as the girl was about to be hacked to bloody chunks, and ejected the chip. Atris continued to sob into her hands, her body quivering like a damaged hyperdrive engine about to tear itself apart.

Kavar drew a shaky breath, and a tear rolled down his cheek as he closed his eyes and tried to wish it all away. He wished he hadn't seen that holovid. He wished none of that had ever happened, that it was only a bad dream. He wanted to believe that when he opened his eyes, the war, and everything pertaining to it would disappear, vanish, erase itself from history. His eyes were blurry when they opened, and he realized they had welled up again. And he cried, even as Atris' weeping gradually became softer. Everything was still here. It was all so _real_.

In all his thirty-two years, Elazio had never once seen Vrook surprised. It seemed nothing could jolt the old man out of his humorless, no-nonsense, often cross disposition, and it was considered taboo to even try, intentionally. Such childish pursuits led to the dark side and blah blah blah. By now, however, Vrook's hard, virtually impenetrable shell had been pulverized beyond recognition. He sat stock still in his chair, pale-faced, breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his eyes wide with indescribable horror. For better or worse, Vrook had been shaken.

Vash was scrunched up on her chair, in an almost fetal position, shaking, shivering, shuddering, and stinking of her own vomit. The poor woman had been traumatized; her eyes – red from crying – flicked in all directions, then pinched shut as she shook her head convulsively, whimpering, moaning, and rocking back and forth in her misery. It was a grievously pitiful sight, but Elazio was in no mood for any more mercy than what he deemed necessary. The Council had shown him no mercy, and he had already given them more than they deserved just by turning off the holoprojector.

Out of all Council members after seeing the holovid, however, Kae-Ell remained the most sane. He had not thrown up, nor had he shed tears in abundance, or cringed on his chair. Nevertheless he had been deeply disturbed, not only by what he saw, but also by what it did to his mind. It would be the object of many nightmares to come for a long time. It had imprinted itself in his memory, a terribly vivid mental image never to be erased, and would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Silence reigned.

For what seemed like years, Elazio stood unwavering, and the Masters sat staring straight ahead into infinity with haunted eyes, scarcely breathing, never blinking.

Elazio's voice was the first thing to break the silence, and he held up the holo-chip for the Masters to see as he spoke.

"I found this inside a Mandalorian belt pack as we drove them into a beast infested jungle on Duxun, the forest moon of Onderon. My reaction upon viewing it was quite similar to yours, except that I managed to watch the whole thing. Every instinct I ever developed was bellowing for me to incinerate it, because whoever recorded this was excited. He was probably aroused by the violence, the sadistic cruelty, and he would get his release whenever he viewed it. I was revolted at the mere thought of such a thing, as you may imagine.

"But, as repulsed as I was, I found myself hesitating. I couldn't bring myself to destroy it, even though I wanted so badly to do so. It was then when I realized that keeping it and forcing you to watch it was the only way to make you see."

His face darkened. He set his jaw and glared icily through dark brown eyes that had grown blurry. His chin trembled with fury, even as he felt tears of anger roll down his face.

"You feel so safe cringing behind your so-called paragon of wisdom, but you don't seem to understand that bad things happen, and that dire times call for drastic measures.

"I went to war because the Mandalorians were killing everyone in their path. Not just military targets. _Everyone_. I went to war to stop them. To prevent anything like that holovid from ever happening, ever again. If you want to punish me for that, then go ahead."

Again, there was silence. None of the Masters so much as moved, even Atris and Vash had calmed down to an extent, no longer shuddering or crying uncontrollably. All five Masters sat so still, it was as if the air in the Council chamber had become a paralyzing force, and had frozen the Masters into their chairs, like stone sculptures. Every face betrayed an inner pain too profound to describe to one who was not already capable of understanding. They were changed people, from this moment until the last day of their lives.

It was an example of feverish irony, though. They had summoned him, with the foremost intention to condemn Elazio for what he had done. By now, however, it was quite clear that he had condemned them, for what they did by doing nothing. They were at his mercy, instead of the other way around. They could have easily walked out during the time when Elazio played the holovid, but they couldn't because of the initial shock that virtually glued them to the ground, and they wouldn't because of their pride. To walk out would be to admit that they had had enough, and to admit that would be to admit that Elazio had gotten the better of them, which they knew he had, but were unwilling to accept it. And that simply was not an option. His contributions to the war were ultimately irrelevant; he had broken the Jedi Code in almost every way, and such an offense called for a severe penalty. The harsh truth was that this was the way things were in the Jedi Order; they had no other choice.

"I'm sorry, Elazio," Kavar whispered. "I truly am, and I speak for all of us. But you have been historically rebellious against us, and our ways. On that note, we have also been very forgiving. This time, however, you've crossed the line, and we cannot let it go."

Elazio couldn't believe what he was hearing. Even after what he had put them through, after forcing their eyes open, their mindsets had not changed. It was useless. He could no more sway the Council than he could push a planet out of orbit by jumping on the ground. Any more than he could change his own sex. It was, simply put, an impossibility.

"You _still_ think that _I'm_ in the wrong?! How can you still think that? Did you not see the suffering, the terror, which was at large three years ago, in that holovid? It wasn't just that one family. It was the entire village, every single one of them – man, woman, child – were all in no less than three pieces by morning. I went against my better judgement, and kept that holo-chip to make you see, yet you disregard even _it_. How can you not see? HOW CAN YOU _POSSIBLY_ NOT SEE?!"

"We did not write the Code, Elazio. We follow it. Marching to war on a moment's notice is not the Jedi way."

"Then the Jedi way is wrong," Elazio rumbled, his voice frighteningly quiet. "The Mandalorians taught me that, and I suppose that's one thing for which I have them to thank. They opened my eyes all the way, causing me to see the Jedi for what they really are. Cowards. Liars. Deserters."

"We must abide by the Code, Elazio. We must. Without it, we are nothing."

"The Code, Master Kavar, is what already makes you nothing. Like life, this galaxy is cruel and unsafe, and in it there is no place for lowly pacifism. It's altogether obsolete, and in this day and age, unless you're unable to defend yourself, you must be willing to defend others who can't. Even if it means going to war 'on a moment's notice,' as you call it. That is the way things are now, and if you can't handle it, that's not my fault. Or my problem."

"If that is indeed where you stand, then you are truly lost to us." The pain and sorrow in Kavar's voice were so clear and unobstructed, even a blind man could hear the tears in his eyes. They were the scalding tears of a brokenhearted man who had been betrayed by his best friend. "Only one thing remains now. Something that--" His voice broke, and he couldn't go on. He was Elazio's Master; Kavar immediately selected him as his apprentice when the younger man was brought to the Order as a small boy. He had personally trained him, and over the years, he grew to love him like a son, even though the young Padawan had a tendency to be rebellious at times. It was too much for him now, to say what needed to be said.

"You are exiled," Kae-Ell intoned. "And you are a Jedi no longer." This elicited a contemptuous snort from Elazio.

"Good," he snapped. "I want nothing to do with the Jedi. From this day forward, I will walk my own path, neither in light, nor darkness. A way where there are no dogmatic absolutes like there are in yours. A way where I can make a difference and not be persecuted for it. And it will be a path far from you. Now, do you have anything else you want to add to my 'punishment' before I take my long-awaited leave?"

"There is one more thing." It was the first time Vrook had spoken since the holovid. He had recovered some of his usual gruffness, but everyone present could tell most of it was through a conscious effort. "Your lightsaber. Surrender it to us."

Elazio replied without an instant's hesitation, "Or what?" He scoffed. "This belongs to me, old man, and if you think I'm going to meekly submit to your whim and relinquish my weapon, sorry, but that's not going to happen. If you want it, you're going to have to take it from me."

Again, Vrook fell silent, unable to adequately respond to Elazio's unbridled backtalk. It would only make him sound more pathetic than he already was at the moment, and there was no point in humiliating the Council any further.

"You're not going to fight me for it, I know that much. And I honestly doubt you'll use the Force to take it from me. In the future, I would suggest you find effective ways of punishing your heroes and saviors, because this is more like a prayer answered than harsh discipline. Goodbye and farewell."

And with those words he turned and walked away for the last time, his robes fluttering behind him, and he left the Jedi Temple, never to return.

* * *

_A/n: The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is taken from the Dark Tranquillity song 'Hours Passed In Exile,' for which I take no credit_


	3. Chapter 3

"_I've walked for miles inside this pit of danger.  
I've swallowed down a thousand years of anger.  
The weight of the world is falling on my shoulders.  
A place where no one follows me, I walk alone."_

"It's been nearly ten years since that day. And not once in four thousand, one hundred forty-seven days, and today, have I not wished I could take back what I did."

"What do you mean?"

"Even though we disagreed on practically everything, the fact remains that the Council were doing what they believed was the right thing. And instead of standing firm in my beliefs and taking it, like I could have and by all means should have, I mocked them and tormented them and spat in their faces. 'You still think I'm in the wrong,' I said. The thing is, I was.

"What I did to them, what I put them through was something no one – not even my most hated enemies – should have to endure. I might have been angry at them for holding me back, but in reality, they didn't do anything to me at all. I, on the other hand, psychologically tortured them, I hurt them, and for what reason? To show them I could? All I did by showing them that holovid – which I regretted almost immediately – was make things ten times worse than before. At first we were simply two cliques who didn't see eye to eye; we had our disagreements, but we never exchanged blows. Well, non-verbal blows. However, now I was distraught with guilt over what I'd just done, which further added to my ever-growing list of spiritual injuries, and the Council – most of whom were honest people who only wanted to help me – were now haunted with visions of pain, torture, suffering, and death, for the rest of their lives. Who deserves that? Who has the right to put others through that?"

"In all fairness, you weren't yourself. You were angry, and things got out of hand."

"Chronicler, I am responsible for my actions, and there is no defense good enough for what I did, not by a long shot. No one deserves to be exposed to the horrors of war, much less brutal war crimes. It's something no one should have to go through, but is sometimes inevitable, and the people who don't have to experience it are the most fortunate people in the galaxy. However, I, in my own arrogance, ignored my conscience which was begging for me to abandon the idea completely, and went to great lengths to make sure the Jedi Council were exposed to some of the shocking inhumanities of the war. Whoever recorded that hateful thing probably had other captured massacres, and pleasured himself while watching them, and I practically stooped to his level just by keeping that holo-chip. I sank even lower by forcing others to watch it, and hurting them, to a selfish end. What did that accomplish? Absolutely nothing. And nothing I can say or do can make up for that. It literally would have been kinder and less petulant of me to just go in there and kill them with my lightsaber, because then at least they wouldn't have to live with what I did to them. I only hope that, in time, they can come to forgive me. Because I'll never forgive myself. I can't."

"Do you miss them?"

"Well no."

"Why not?"

"Because first of all, leaving them was my choice, and I had wanted to leave the Order since day one. Secondly, my indefensible cruelty and their misguided honesty notwithstanding, they were still wrong to do nothing. I may be sorry for what I did, but that doesn't mean I have to miss them."

"What about your old master, Kavar? Weren't you friends with him?"

"Was. And it's those times I miss. Kavar and I, we have nothing left in common."

"Do you miss anyone? Do you have a family?"

"My mother died in the attacks on our then-home planet, Calderon. My father, my two brothers and three sisters now live on Naboo, in the mountains on the outskirts of Theed."

"At what age did you leave them for the Order?"

"I was seven, and I didn't leave. I was taken."

"And have you seen or even spoken to them at all since you were inducted into the Jedi Order?"

"Jedi aren't allowed to have personal relations, but I couldn't have cared less. They were, after all, my flesh and blood, and nothing should ever – _ever_ – have precedence over one's own family, not Jedi training, not learning about the Force, nothing. Because there's literally nothing more important. Family should always be foremost among a person's most sacred treasures, but to the Jedi, such ties are considered dangerous, which is dumber than dumb. There is nothing dangerous about having a family, I don't care what anyone says. There never has been, and never will be. Anger and hate are forbidden, to which I have no loud objections – those emotions can be genuinely dangerous if you let them dictate your actions – but they also say feelings like love should be avoided, because they often get in the way of what they conceive to be 'what is most important.' They believe a Jedi's life should be dedicated to others, a life of sacrifice, so to speak. I, on the other hand, believe choosing a person's path for them – which the Jedi are by no means above – to be uncaring, at best, and marginally evil, at worst. I believe any man, woman, or child who is sensitive to the Force should always have first say in regards to learning how to channel it, as opposed to now, when they often have little or no say. Of course, I understand that a visible percentage of Force-sensitives decide on their own that they want to become Jedi, but you have to wonder if it's really worth living in constant fear of "falling" to the "Dark Side" every single day and night for the rest of your life. I think it's tragic to live as though your life belongs to another. In order to help others, you must also help yourself, and it is not difficult to be devoted to helping others, while also living your own life. There is no wisdom in forfeiting your possessions, deserting your loved ones, extinguishing your personal values, and turning your life, which is yours by right, into a cycle of endless servitude from which the only reprieve is death. Because without pleasure, joy, our need, every breath, every heartbeat becomes like sand in an hour glass, just slipping away until it expires. The prospect of leading such an existence was more than I could bear, so when I was old enough to look after myself I would sneak away to visit my family whenever I could, to let them know that I was all right, and that I'd be coming home once my training was complete."

"But the war made that impossible."

"Not only did the war foil my plans to finish training, it also took it's toll on me, as I elaborated earlier."

"You did, but there's still one thing I don't understand about that."

"What don't you understand?"

"I don't understand how the eradications of all the other worlds that were destroyed by the war didn't create the wound in the Force, but Malachor 5 did. And you say close to four million people died at Malachor, am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Well, billions of people died during the war. And if what you say is true, then shouldn't the wound have been created much, much earlier? Shouldn't the Force be on the verge of death?"

"Perhaps it is, Chronicler. Maybe the screaming in my ears is an indication that the end is imminent. But it's impossible to know for certain why – or if – the massacre at Malachor 5 is what maimed the Force. My theory is that it wasn't the death of those particular people, but that it was the accumulative deaths of everyone who died for the war, billions, like you said, and that it reached a crescendo at Malachor. Three million six hundred thousand people dead in the same instant was, in all likelihood, the straw that broke the bantha's back."

"I see. Well, that certainly makes sense."

"It does, but that's only my best guess. We may never know what really created the wound. It may be something entirely different, the truth is that we honestly don't know."

The silence that followed was the longest, thickest period of stillness Elazio had experienced since his "trial" ten years ago. Time seemed to stop, and the humming of the _Hawk_'s engines seemed to meld with the quiet, leaving the hearer unsure of whether the sound were truly there or not. The room became like a dreamscape; the floor shifted and warped like a mat laid over a rippling pool of dense molasses, oceanlike swells rising and falling. The walls were alive, each one seeming to creep into the corners. The ceiling seemed to ascend, or was it descending? It was as if the room were getting smaller, while simultaneously expanding; nothing made any sense whatsoev--

"...more about your family." The Chronicler's voice snapped Elazio out of his strange reverie, and the room all at once returned to normal. Elazio realized he hadn't heard the Chronicler clearly enough to understand what he was saying; the words had come to him in a series of distant echoes heard from afar, as though the sound were riding the wind from the far rim of a vast canyon.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said I would like to more about your family. Your home. Your life before the Jedi. What was it like?"

"I wish more than anything I could tell you, but I barely remember what life was like back then."

"Your family, then?"

"My mother, Faviani, was as close to perfect as people get. Even at 40 years old her youthful beauty remained; she didn't look a day over 30. She had the sweetest smile a woman can wear, her laugh was like music, and no one else I've known can sing like she could. Beautiful green eyes, long black hair, pearly white teeth; she was the woman of my father's dreams. And she wasn't just a pretty face, she wasn't just a parent. She was a friend. Madre was strong, but gentle. She was kind, but also very firm. Whenever you were going through a difficult time, she would always stand by you to the end. She was a miracle of a mother, who deserved better than a violent death at the hands of murdering cowards. Her untimely, unmerited death left a hole in my heart that can never fully heal."

"I am sorry for your loss."

"I appreciate your concern, Chronicler."

A loud knock on the door rudely jolted Elazio and the Chronicler out of their state of reminiscence, and Atton Rand's head poked in. Judging by the look on his face, Elazio speculated that he was annoyed. Which – when it came to Atton – was nothing new. There weren't times when he was irritable – there were times when he _wasn't_. And the times when he wasn't were even worse.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt your little tryst, but can one of you deal with that stupid T3 unit? It keeps barging into the cockpit and bleeping a bunch of nonsense I can't make heads or tails out of. Not like I ever can, anyways." Atton sure loved to complain about T3-M4. In fact, he always seemed to have a negative comment to make about _something_. It was starting to drive Elazio up the wall, and he was getting to the point where he wished he'd just left the bloody jerk to rot in the Peragus brig.

"Perhaps he is attempting to access the ship's computer, and you keep getting in his way with your antisocial conduct," the Chronicler suggested, straight-faced, but with a reproving undertone.

"Oh, so now we're all concerned about what a little machine thinks? Give me a break. Besides, I was talking to the captain, Doctor Journalist. Not you."

"It's Chronicler."

"You know what? Whatever! I don't care either way. You're just an annoying pretty boy to me."

"Spoken like a true child of ignorance."

"Hoh, you're gonna have to do better than that if you want to offend me. If you want, I have a list of insults that you can look over, in case you--"

"Gentlemen! That's enough." Elazio's firm voice brought out the same authority he had used to command his troops during the war. "Atton, if you're having trouble with T3, first what you don't do is fly off the handle and start kicking on my droid, because if he gets damaged as a result of your temper, you're paying for repairs. I'd suggest you talk – neutrally – to Bao-Dur and have him find a different place for T3 to work. Now, if that's all, please close the door. We're in the middle of something."

With a roll of his eyes, Atton heaved an exasperated sigh, and retracted his head from the doorway, which closed shortly after he left.

Elazio waited a few seconds after the door shut until he was sure Atton was gone, and then turned to face the Chronicler, who was waiting patiently.

"Now, then. Where were we?" he asked.

"Your family, and your old life."

"Ah, yes." Elazio cleared his throat, and shifted into a more comfortable position on his chair. His mind went back to when he was six years old, and his coffee-colored eyes stared into infinity. "My older brother, Alecko, and I were practically inseperable. We did everything together; we shared a room in our home on Calderon, we sat next to each other during meals, we would use our coaster wagon as a star fighter and pretend to be star pilots, fighting imaginary enemies in an imaginary war. We would play happily for hours, even after it got dark, and Madre always had to call us at least three times to come in and get ready for bed." He smiled sadly at the fond memory. "I never dreamed in a million years I'd be doing the real thing, fighting desperately just to stay alive."

"You _were_ only a child," the Chronicler noted. "Childhood games are imagination, and there are many things about life that children at that age can't possibly understand."

"Of course, they were only games," the sad note in Elazio's voice lingered. "It was innocence, another thing the Order took from me. But I've already rambled on about how much I hate the Jedi ways, and I'm tired of being bitter."

"I was wondering if you had any stories you could tell me about your childhood, before the Order."

Before answering, Elazio gave the Chronicler a curious glance, and thought for a moment. Why was the Chronicler being so inquisitive? It wasn't as though he knew nothing about him, so why--? No, it didn't matter. Friends shared personal information, it was not uncommon, and this wasn't any different.

"One day when I was five years old, my father Davino took me and my brother down to a lake which was about a mile or so from our home. He said we were going 'fishing,' and that this was the perfect day for it. Alecko had gone fishing once or twice before, but I hadn't; I barely knew how a fishing rod worked, let alone how to catch anything. Padre told me not to worry, he would teach me everything he knew, and he did. It took me hours to finally fasten the hook to my line even with Padre's help; normally I was a rather slow learner, but what happened next still surprises me to this day. Before Padre can remind me to bait my hook, I've already tossed it over the side of the boat, _plink_, not expecting to catch a thing. Next thing I know, the cork which was also attached to my line sinks like a rock, I mean it's gone. The rod is nearly wrenched out of my hands, and the boat starts to list, Padre and Alecko are both urging me to reel in the catch, but I'm too excited to do anything but hold on for dear life. When Padre offers to reel it in himself, I'm suddenly reeling with all my might, all the while grinning from ear to ear; no way am I letting this prize go. Then, after about five minutes of fighting, I manage to get it close enough to the boat for Padre to harpoon it. My very first catch turned out to be a Giant Pike – about three and a half feet long! I begged Padre to take my picture, and he did. One of me holding the fish, one of Alecko holding it, and one of both of us with the fish. Although since I was so territorial, I only let my brother hold my catch for as long as it took to take his picture!"

"How long did it take you to eat it?" the Chronicler asked with a smile, amused by the story and the thought of Elazio being young. In truth, it was hard to imagine someone like him had ever been a child, but it was silly to think otherwise. One thing everyone has in common is that we've all been children before. Every last one of us. We've all been young, and we're all going to die someday.

"Well, first Padre had to clean it, and he let me watch. I imagine at least some children might be revolted at the sight of cutting off a fish's head and removing its insides, but not me. I watched every minute of it, utterly fascinated. Then I watched my mother cook it, and I asked her if I could eat the whole thing myself. It made sense to me back then, because Padre and Alecko had caught other fish, though none were as big as mine. Anyway, as I'm eating my prize, it doesn't take me long to realize that there's no way I can eat the whole thing myself, and Madre tells me that fish doesn't keep well. So I suggest that maybe the animals that live outside our house are hungry and might want to eat the rest of it. Madre laughs and takes the rest of the fish outside, setting it down near the woods in our back yard, and I soon go to bed a happy little boy. Next morning I wake up, and the first thing I do is run outside, still in my nightclothes, to see if an animal had helped itself to Madre's cooking, and sure enough. I find a bare skeleton in the spot where Madre left the fish the previous night. I was delighted."

"You were a bright young soul," the Chronicler remarked, still smiling. "I would have loved to have known you then."

Elazio's own smile conveyed a hint of wistfulness as the memory faded. His childhood had been far too brief, and the sad thing about it was that it didn't have to be. He never understood why Jedi would always begin training at such a young age when they have little or no control over their emotions. Didn't that conflict directly with the first part of the Jedi Code? _There is no emotion, there is peace_. Children are rank with emotion, and it often took years and years for them to smother their feelings, and to accept the fact that they can't ever be with their families anymore, or do what they want, or live their own life. Whereas if the Jedi took adults for training, they would, in all likelihood, be much easier to train. They wouldn't be agonizing about emotions and personal feelings all the time, because grown people are usually mature enough to control themselves. Aren't they? Honestly, aren't they? What is it exactly that makes child candidates more acceptable than adults? For that matter, what is it about adults that makes them unacceptable candidates 99% of the time? Did it ever occur to the Jedi that their lives don't have to be so hard? That the only reason why their ways are so difficult is because they needlessly make it so? Had they only realized that, thousands of Force-sensitive children could have lived out the rest of their childhood as they saw fit, not as how it was chosen for them.

But there was another thing brought to mind that Elazio had to acknowledge. It couldn't have been anyone else; it had to be him. If he hadn't been brought to the Order when he was, he wouldn't have become so rebellious. If he hadn't become rebellious, he wouldn't have disobeyed the Council and gone to war. If he hadn't gone to war, the Republic would have lost. And if the Republic had lost... He didn't even want to think about that.

"I was bright, but that life is gone. The life that I chose began thirty-two years ago, and it ended when I was only seven."

Lines of concern creased the Chronicler's fair face as he studied Elazio's own, and the other man's eyes gradually grew moist.

"An innocent little boy..." Elazio whispered, gritting his teeth to keep from crying, the tears threatening to spill down his dark face, his hands clenched into fists.

The Chronicler's anxiety was growing by the second, and his eyes widened, almost fearfully. Was he inadvertently pushing Elazio over the edge with his questions? Could it be that he was prodding a little too hard, and causing his friend's psychological state to regress? Would he be partly to blame, if Elazio were to go mad with longing?

Almost immediately, the Chronicler dismissed the last mental question. Queries do not induce dementia, regardless of how you look at it. Madness is often caused by the inability to move on from a traumatic event in the past, and the resulting descent into inner chaos is always gradual. There is no threshold to step over and suddenly become crazy, only a decline that slowly becomes steeper the farther you fall. The slope has no known end, only different levels, and different categories of insanity.

The Chronicler wanted to spare his friend the pain of recollection, to end the discussion then and there, but there was something he wanted almost desperately to know. Unfortunately, the only thing that led to it was a question more painful than any of his others. And this he needed to know.

"What was it, Elazio?" The Chronicler scarcely dared to ask. "What was it that prevented you from going home to your family?"

Another long period of silence followed, and rivulets of anguish glistened on Elazio's face and in his eyes. Still, he refused to cry.

"After that final, terrible battle, I had been hurt deeper than anyone should have to be, both mentally and physically. For days I lay strapped to a bed in the ship's infirmary, screaming from the bottom of my lungs, only stopping to catch my breath. The torment of being without the Force – and knowing that not only was I directly responsible for every death at Malachor, but that becoming a mass murderer had been only way to stop mass murderers – was something my mind couldn't handle at the time. It was too much to take in.

"I didn't regret what we did, and I still don't. But I did, and still do to this day, regret that we had to do it. I was a complete mess of a man, broken in mind, body and spirit. I couldn't go home like that, certainly not to stay. I couldn't inflict my pain on my family, I simply could not do that to them. Additionally, if I was to regain control over the Force, and myself, I couldn't be surrounded by people; I had to be alone. That was why I went into exile. The Jedi think it was because they banished me, but the truth is, I didn't have to leave Republic space if I didn't want to; I had already left the Jedi, so they had no jurisdiction over me. Exile was a choice I made in the hopes that I could return home someday. To put it poetically, it was the first step on the long road to peace."

The Chronicler was relieved that his question hadn't been too much for Elazio to bear. It would have broken his heart if Elazio had fell silent and simply gotten up and left, unable to speak without weeping. Still, his concern for his friend remained, and it came to life across his face and in his eyes.

"Did you even see them after the end of the war?" he asked barely above a whisper. "Surely you must have wanted to at least say goodbye."

Elazio's eyes avoided the Chronicler's, and he bowed his head. "I did," he said. "I paid them a final visit before leaving. I told them I had to be away for a long, long time. I told them not to be afraid for me, that I could take care of myself. I told them that everything happens for a reason, that there are some questions to which we never find the answer, and some things to which we never know the reason. When we don't find the answers we seek, we must have faith. And I told them to have faith in their hope that I would return."

"What about you? Do you think you'll ever see them again?"

Elazio was startled by the unexpected abruptness of the Chronicler's query. It had been nearly a decade since the last time he was with his family, and he felt the misery of being without them reawakening. It hurt even worse than before.

Elazio rose from his seat, turned, and walked slowly toward the door. As he reached it, he hesitated, and looked back at the Chronicler, who hadn't moved, and, for a brief instant, met his gaze. In the eyes of the Chronicler was a sense of distant sorrow, a small thing barely enough to be recognized, and yet unmistakably present. Elazio's eyes were weary, and sad.

"I hope..."

* * *

_Quote is taken from the Saliva song 'I Walk Alone.' It belongs to them, not me._


End file.
